


Second Nature

by htebazytook



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:33:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Of post-Apocalyptic apparitions.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Of post-Apocalyptic apparitions.

_**Second Nature (Part 1)**_  
 **Title:** Second Nature (Part 1)  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairings:** Crowley/Aziraphale  
 **Author's Notes:** Of post-Apocalyptic apparitions.

It's stereotypically cloudy over the city, so much so that Crowley can't even see the symbol twisted out of the M25.

Crowley can't help getting a little nervous in planes. Obviously he's not afraid of heights, considering he could just as easily fly _without_ the plane. It's just a bit disconcertingly . . . heavenly, up here. Not that Heaven is really among the clouds, but the sentiment's still there.

Crowley glares at an approaching taxi until it relents and pulls up in front of him. He slides into the back seat, makes a complicated gesture and the driver suddenly knows both Crowley's destination and to leave him well alone. The cab speeds off.

. You wouldn't need to bother with any of this if you had the Bentley.  
. No, but I _would_ have to deal with Tchaikovsky's 'Body Language' blaring indefinitely from the speakers.  
.  I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that . . . work?  
. Anyway, melted Bentley's a bitch to get out of the upholstery. I'm better off without it.  
. I suppose. Still, what a shame.

London's as dreary as Crowley remembers, annoying bumpy streets and relentless grey sky. Crowley's gotten used to the variety of America, has grown accustomed to the wonderfully unfamiliar cities. No unexpected time bombs of memory lurking in a shiny new Wal*Mart as they did in the centuries old streets here—here he knows every brick of every passing building, saw them being laid down, can easily summon up memories from the Crusades to the Cold War and everywhere in-between.

. I love this city. Lots of people do . . .  
. Uh huh, so what?  
. It's just this great sense of love.  
. Yeah, I still don't buy that, so . . .  
. I _told_ you I couldn't put it any better than that. Anyway, in this instance I'd rather thought you _would_ understand.  
. Don't talk to me about sentimentality—a change in locale was long overdue.

Crowley opens his hand and finds the cab fare in it, shoves the money at the blank-faced driver and steps out onto the sidewalk. He breathes familiar city air—he'd never thought of London air as having a particular smell before but whenever he returns there's an invisible component there that strikes him, puts him instantly at ease whether he wants it to or not.

. You _must_ remember that little dive of a place just around the corner, here. Delicious crème brule, as I recall. A sub par wine list, unfortunately, but one can't expect perfection, can one?  
. I don't care. Leave me alone.  
.  The park isn't very far, you know. Doesn't a walk in the park sound absolutely lovely? It's raining, of course, but I find it's just as—

"Ugh, just _shut it_ , will you?" Crowley says aloud. The passing Soho residents don't bat an eyelash. Crowley sighs, pushes his sunglasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Breathes, however unnecessary.

When he can open his eyes again he's annoyed by how overcast and Londony this particular street is—tauntingly overcast, even.

He opens the suddenly unlocked door to the bookstore and winces at the loud, cheerful crime of the bell. He always forgets about it.

Muted blare of a car horn outside. The place is as dusty as it's ever been, albeit slightly more colorful with the brightness of childrens' books on display. The impeccably Open For Business look of the front of the store never fails to amuse him. It had rarely been open before, and now it never is—still, everything is set up appropriately, frozen in time. It hasn't really been all that long. For someone's sake, he's _slept_ longer than this.

He moves quickly into the back room, hit with the sight of first editions and the chair he always sat in and unfinished tea—

. Well don't just stand there, Crowley. Have a seat.  
. You need to shut up right now. I mean it.  
. Now I know you said there hasn't been any change on your end, but Francis was telling me—  
. Seriously, shut _up_ . . .

  


> "Eh, I wouldn't trust old Francis if I were you. Above's probably just telling you what they want you to hear. Meddling and all that," Crowley said. He poured himself a third or thirteenth glass of surprisingly vintage merlot.
> 
> "I'm sorry, 'meddling'? Isn't that more your scenery, my dear?"
> 
> Crowley rolled his eyes. "Scene, angel. My scene. And no, not really—yours is the side that sticks its nose where all that do-goodery isn't wanted. My side is more the status quo, if you ask me."
> 
> "Hm. You know, Crowley, if one of our assistants were more partial to deception it would probably be the one in the employ of _The_ Deceiver."
> 
> Crowley sighed, irritated. "Forget it."
> 
> The angel sipped from his own glass, little glint of victory in his eye.
> 
> They talked about politics and some newly acquired book of poetry for an inordinate amount of time, spiraling steadily toward inebriation all the while. Crowley probably encouraged it more than was advisable considering how alcohol could loosen his own already remarkably loose (and flexible) tongue. But the thing was, it made the angel entertaining and his company surprisingly tolerable, even in his boring, dusty back room surrounded on all sides by even more boring, dusty books. It got his dark, indefinable eyes nearly black, got his cheeks flushed and his laugh easy and less oppressively proper.
> 
> "I'll tell you one theme-- _one_ thing, Crowley. Crowley?"
> 
> "Yeah I'm lisstening. Sspit it out already." Crowley blinked at him, willing his face into focus.
> 
> "This'd. This'd _better work_." He finished off his half-empty glass, gestured futilely at it until Crowley just reached over and poured more wine for him.
> 
> "Yeah? Yeah, I mean. It'll work."
> 
> "Mmhmm, yes, it had _better_ ," he said empathically, sitting up straighter to take a drink. "Or else I'll blame _you_ , I hope you know."
> 
> "Oh, come on," Crowley laughed. "Nothing'sgonna _happen_. Don't you worry your glowy head about it. What, d'you expect -Above'sgonna beam you Up and chain you to some boring-as-fuck desk job for all eternity?"
> 
> "Something like that, yes." The angel's face settled into a frown. "Glowy?"
> 
> "Halo," Crowley explained. "Getss pretty blesssed glowy when you're drunk."
> 
> "I am _knock_ —sorry— _not_ drunk. Really, Crowley."
> 
> Crowley laughed at him.

Crowley looks around the room. He's read a lot of these books out of sheer boredom. The angel kept his favorites back here, not just the rare first editions and the Bibles (in fact he'd moved those because they made Crowley sneeze and spill wine all over and thus threaten said Bibles), but the kind of books he saved for rainy days and reread endlessly. And they'd survived by sheer force of will, apparently.

Crowley is very careful not to move the books too much, and whenever he does he makes sure to replace them precisely back into their dust-silhouetted slots.

He flips one idly open:

 _O but it is not the years—it is I—it is You;  
We touch all laws, and tally all antecedents;  
We are the skald, the oracle, the monk, and the knight—we easily include them, and more;  
We stand amid time, beginningless and endless—we stand amid evil and good;  
All swings around us—there is as much darkness as light;  
The very sun swings itself and its system of planets around us,   
Its sun, and its again, all swing around us._

Crowley snorts.

. It's lovely writing, even you can appreciate that.  
. Not really.  
. Oh, honestly . . .  
. Not my thing, sorry.

Crowley wanders around the bookshop for awhile, perusing like an unwanted customer. The air's crisp and musty and secluded even though it's now raining so hard outside he can hear it.

*

Crowley saunters vaguely in the direction of his apartment, somewhere he hasn't actually been for years. And in any event, the place _had_ proven itself unsafe. Who knew what lovely surprises might await him inside? For all he knew, Ligur's remains were still smoldering on Crowley's formerly pristine carpet. He couldn't recall many specifics about the Apocalypse, but that particular incident really stood out. Just remembering it now made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

At least, this is how Crowley first identifies the sharp visceral Awareness that shoots up his spine—that is, until he hones in on the miraculously dry man standing in the downpour on Maddox Street and staring _right at him_.

Crowley's first instinct is to run, the memory of _why_ Ligur had met his end the way he had still fresh in his mind, but there is a second instinct that advises in no uncertain terms Crowley really ought to stay put.

He awaits the other demon's approach like a Burberry-clad deer in the headlights.

"Hi there, uh . . ." Crowley says.

"Acedia," the demon supplies. He has blood red eyes — that is to say, they're the color of actual blood, which is dark and brownish. And like actual blood, being in their presence makes you uncomfortable. He's wearing jeans and a leather jacket, which may be a first for demons everywhere. "Call me Ace," he says, intolerably casual about it. "Crawly, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Ye- _ep_. That's me, all right. So," says Crowley, who hasn't been incinerated as yet. "You here to start another Cold War or something? Or maybe a Hot War, this time around, eh? Switch things up a bit, eh? You know what I'm saying," Crowley blathers. " Ye- _ep_."

Ace smiles. It isn't reassuring. An even less reassuring arm snakes its way around Crowley's shoulders. "Oh, let's not talk business. I'm starving— why don't we get a bite to eat and catch up!"

"Catch up," Crowley repeats.

Ace smiles again. It's even more unpleasant the second time around. "Where's a good place to eat around here? There's a Ritz in London, isn't there?"

.Well, I highly doubt _his_ sort could get through the door . . .

Crowley talks loudly to drown it out: "I know a place."

The restaurant Crowley leads them to isn't the sort of place he usually frequents. It's that terribly modern sort of restaurant that celebrity chefs flocked to in order to validate the overpriced, carefully plated fragments of food that they themselves were trying to push on the public. And while that may coincide rather nicely with Crowley's current persona, he's always preferred the quiet, fascinating little restaurants where they know you.

"So uh," Crowley says after they've observed the dab of sauce presented to them as an appetizer. "And this is just me making conversation here, but, do I know you?"

"Well," Ace shrugs, "I know _you_."

Crowley thinks it better not to ask.

" _Everyone_ knows you Down Below," Ace says. "I think I heard the word 'traitor' tossed around a few times."

Crowley resists the urge to gulp.

Ace laughs, which is even less reassuring than his smiles. "Don't fret about it—what demon worth his salt hasn't been a bit of a traitor at one point or another?"

"Ahahahaha," Crowley says. It's true enough, but Crowley likes to think of himself as the demonic equivalent of a decent lawyer—sure, there was a dirty job to be done, but that didn't mean he had to settle for the shady clients just because they paid better.

"I hear you're stationed across the pond, these days," Ace nudges.

"I'm in America a good chunk of the time, yeah," Crowley evades. Nobody's stationed him anywhere. Nobody's said a (literally) damned word to him. Ace is the first in years. You can't blame Crowley for being a little suspicious.

Ace could've been anyone—Belial, Dagon—for all Crowley knew he was having a snooty lunch with the Devil himself.

Ace nods unencouragingly. "There has indeed been much activity in the States. How much of it would you say is your doing?"

Crowley gets the distinct impression that he's being audited. He clears his throat. "Oh, you know. The usual political hubbub. There's this unbelievable Palin woman that's about to be set loose. We've only to sit back and watch, really. I mean, she'll not _win_ of course, but it sets just enough into motion to upset the political balance, as it were."

Ace frowns, which makes his face seem horribly full of shadows. "Why won't she win?"

"Well, listen: Obama's supposed to bring people together, right? Well this other movement will neatly divide the whole country all over again, and keep an actual, functioning democracy at bay."

"So you're just . . . letting Above's man into the White House," Ace says, slowly.

"Well yes, but no, see, just. Listen," Crowley says. "Listen. You've got to keep the balance up here. It's not the same as Below. Humans notice when things are too glaringly awful—you've got to be subtle about it. Build them up with national pride or wild promises of reform and then undermine it with the truly stupid people who've accidentally stumbled their way into a position of leadership."

"Stupid people," Ace says meaningfully. "Not, I dunno, Our people?"

"Never underestimate the power of stupid people," Crowley insists. "Lots of humans are stupid. And Someone knows stupidity loves company. Or at least, it's so loud that it tunes out anything reasonable quite efficiently." He beams.

Ace had clearly not been expecting a dissertation. "Okay, Crawly, but what's your point?"

"It's, it's." What the hell? "It's ineffable."

Ace considers this, nodding to himself. "Well, you certainly have your reasons. But what do I know about it? I'm only an independent contractor."

"I beg your pardon? I mean," he revises. "Er. How?"

Ace shrugs. "I do a lot of freelance work," he says. "There's only so many exorcisms you can perform per year to before you exceed the quota."

"What sort of work, if you don't mind my asking?" Crowley starts to feel cheated. Compared to most demons, Ace was certainly Earth-savvy enough to take over Crowley's little niche in the fabric of occult influence. Come to think of it, maybe he _was_ taking over for Crowley…

"It's more of a long-term goal I have in mind, but there's a number of smaller, contributory projects in development. You've heard of the Kindle? Ah, probably not. Not yet, anyway. It's wonderfully clever, if I do say so myself—it's basically a big phone made specifically for books. Sure, the people who buy it will no doubt be the intelligent, culturally aware variety of human. At first.

"Over time, devices like this will become so familiar, so much _easier_ , that actual books will quickly become obsolete. Same goes for everything, and it's already happening. These elaborate phones and godlike computers are already taking over. Before long, humans will be less inclined toward original creations. They'll be too indoctrinated to the ease of technology to care anymore for art, philosophy, whatever these convoluted things that they devise and so treasure are.

"History can't stay very relevant in a culture of instant gratification. And soon enough, humans will communicate only through the most arbitrary of mediums, through instant conversations with limited wordcounts that prevent any actual content. And they'll have become so self-absorbed in their own emptiness that they'll hardly notice it."

Crowley blinks. "I see."

"It's based around WALL-E, more or less," Ace says.

Crowley raises an eyebrow. "Kay." The fuck?

. There's no theaters here. There's nothing to _do_.  
. Stop whining, it's spoiling my appetite.  
.  A feat indeed, considering you don't have one.

"It's pleasingly ironic, in my opinion, to know that humanity's fanciful dystopian visions of the future will be their own undoing."

"So, Pixar. Not Orwell or Brave New World or something. We're, uh, we're really going with Pixar, here? The studio that brought you Toy Story and Finding Nemo. Really."

Luckily Ace isn't quite naturalized enough to register Crowley's tone. "Oh, that's just one little facet of it. Take the discipline of music: these new virtuosi can't sing to save their lives, but that's no problem—auto tuning means anybody can be a star, and synthetic music means nobody needs to understand actual music anymore."

Ah. So that's who Crowley had to thank for his Gaga-cursed iPod.

"So!" Ace says, apparently unfazed by Crowley's blatant horror. "I think a couple of drinks are in order."

Two elegant champagne glasses appear on the table. "What are we celebrating?" Crowley asks.

Ace doesn't say anything, just studies him disquietingly closely.

Crowley turns it into sparkling grape juice before he drinks. Alcohol allowed him to stop thinking or hide from guilt or be happy, but he couldn't deal with the sobering up part when everything came back to him, so he never let the drunk part happen anymore.

Several barely discernible courses later, Ace bids him farewell on a wet, antiquated street.

"I must say, it was quite the treat to chat with you, Crawly," Ace says, disappearing in the blink of an eye. None of the passersby seem to notice.

Crowley isn't sure how to feel about the whole thing. He busies himself with not feeling instead.

*

Back in his unremarkable New York apartment, Crowley sighs and tries to shake off the weight of jet-lag or London-lag or life itself.

"Crowley."

"I thought I told you to shut up," Crowley sighs.

" _Crowley_."

" _What_?" He throws his sunglasses somewhere on the couch and rubs at his temples—

Freezes. Opens his eyes.

Aziraphale.

"Aziraphale." He can't remember the last time he said it.

"It wasn't easy to track you down, I hope you know."

There's an unfashionable, perpetually dusty angel standing in his living room, standing there calling him by the name he prefers.

"Aziraphale?"

". . . Er, yes?"

All swings around us. "Aziraphale."

Aziraphale comes closer, hesitant. "It's good to be back on Earth." Looks at him. Crowley's forgotten how terrifying his eyes are. "I missed," he says. "I missed the place."

*

 **(Continued in Part 2)**  



	2. Second Nature (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley helps Aziraphale rebuild the bookstore, except when he doesn't.

_**Second Nature (Part 2)**_  
 **Title:** Second Nature (Part 2)  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairings:** Crowley/Aziraphale  
 **Author's Notes:** Crowley helps Aziraphale rebuild the bookstore, except when he doesn't.

Crowley just has one of those faces. It's pleasingly symmetrical and high cheekboned and universally appealing to look at. He makes you feel you're so far beneath him that he barely notices you, but at the same time you're incredibly grateful that he notices you at all. This is called 'being cool', according to Crowley.

Aziraphale doesn't feel this way. Nor does he care that Crowley is appealing to look at, what with the hair and the charm and the easy grace of his every move. Crowley insists all of it is necessary to the job, but Aziraphale knows he could manifest as a hideous menace just as easily as a pretty one.

No—the reason for the flip of Aziraphale's stomach when Crowley's conscientiously perfect face appears in the store window, the reason his psyche perks up like that isn't some visceral human response. It's more the shock that it even _is_ Crowley. It's hard for Aziraphale to remember where he is, sometimes.

The bell above the door rings merrily. Crowley storms in. "Well, I'm here. Happy now?"

Aziraphale smiles, walks over to him and deposits a stack of books in his arms. "I'm up to Bacon — you can start in the far corner over there, there's a good lad."

"Why do _I_ have to help with this again? Come to think it, why _am_ I helping you with this?" He drums his fingers on the books, setting loose a small cloud of dust. "Aren't there others who'd be more. . . qualified? Bibliophilically speaking?"

On the desk a pen scribbles on an enormous legal pad. Aziraphale looks over the chart for a minute before turning his attention back to Crowley. He smiles patiently. "Even the most dedicated scholar lacks your unique . . . perspective."

"Right," Crowley sighs, oozing reluctance but going over to the B section anyway. "I think you just don't like the idea of letting anybody else into your shrine."

Aziraphale laughs, but can't think of a way to protest that won't sound incriminating so he busies himself with the next stack of books. It was all really a matter of separating the originals from the fakes, at this point, and—

"Done," Crowley says, suddenly directly in front of him.

"Well, that was certainly . . . expeditious," Aziraphale says, eyeing him.

"Demon."

Aziraphale continues eyeing him. "Mm. All right, well, I'll just finish cataloging this bunch over here and then we can go for a drink, shall we?"

Crowley peers over Aziraphale's shoulder. ". . . You wouldn't, ah, you wouldn't be referring to the level five hoard in the back room, would you?"

"Yes, well, I _am_ sorry, my dear, I know you don't have all eternity," Aziraphale says testily.

Crowley gasps, puts a hand over his heart. "Oh, Aziraphale. Your first sarcastic dig of the millennium. I'm honored to have been the recipient. Then again, I usually am . . ."

Aziraphale ignores him, checks something off and gestures one stack of books over onto another stack of books. He isn't mollified. "These won't sort themselves, you know."

"Sure, but do you have to do it all the human way?"

"Well no, but that wouldn't. It just. It wouldn't be _right_ , don't you see."

Crowley stares, not that he isn't always staring. ". . . You take your job much too seriously."

"Oh, really, " Aziraphale sighs. "I didn't mean 'virtuous' right. I meant 'correct' right. I just. Look, either help me, or get out of my way, Crowley."

Crowley's eyebrows climb. "You've developed some interesting new psychoses, you know that?"

Aziraphale ignores him again. It's usually the best course of action. He really does have a lot to do, and it'd taken him the better part of a year just to compile a master list, and what little of _that_ he'd actually found for his collec—that is, the bookstore— was nowhere near complete. He'd become so frustrated with the whole tedious process that he'd just given in and started cataloging everything he did have.

Aziraphale sighs and looks around the store, muses, "Sometimes I think it would just be easier to miracle an illusion to make what the customer sees somewhat less. . . hospitable."

"So what, like, a Kardashian bachelorette party?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Never mind," he says. "Hm. It's got to be something universally unappetizing. Excruciating boredom would be a plus — it'd mesh so well with the place, really highlight its already considerable strength in that area. I'm thinking something churchy . . ."

"Certainly, certainly," Aziraphale says. "But I couldn't just go and _do_ that. . ."

Crowley shrugs. "I'll do it."

"Oh, really, my dear, you needn't go to the trouble. . ."

"Oh, okay." Crowley studies his nails slyly. "I won't, then . . ."

"I mean," Aziraphale says hurriedly, "I mean. You don't. I wouldn't _mind_ if you did it. _You_ know what I mean."

The side of Crowley's mouth quirks up. "Mmhmm. Hey, come on, you can alphabetize later. Let's do lunch."

God knew Aziraphale wanted the help, but Crowley had a tendency to get clingy. It could grate on the nerves, Crowley's constant need for attention, coupled as it was with his general air of gloominess.

But at the same time Aziraphale had gotten used to it. They went through phases, the two of them. They'd collaborate for a few years until someone's metaphorical (or not) feathers got ruffled, ignore one another or ship off to the latest empire. But they always ended up drinking in the same old London taverns in the end.

*

There must have been food at some point, but that was hours ago. Other diners had come and gone but he and Crowley stayed put at a ceramic topped corner table with different colored plates and a surprisingly vintage bottle of wine between them. The waiters didn't notice them. Nobody did.

Aziraphale can't remember ever seeing Crowley on such a regular basis. Not even during the Apocalypse. Or during the time of Christ. Or the disco era.

But somehow it feels completely normal, and it's not as though they hadn't gone years without seeing one another before. It's just that Aziraphale's grown accustomed to Crowley's face since his return. His smiles, his frowns, his manic ups and downs . . .

Crowley squints at him across the table. At least that's the impression Aziraphale's getting. "Your accent's a bit off these days, you know."

Aziraphale can't even remember what they'd been talking about. "Oh, really—that's ridiculous. How many places have we lived over the years?"

"Please. You've been English since before there _was_ an England. Sometimes I think you might have inspired a whole culture of stiff-upper-lips and tea and unnecessarily large vocabulary by mere virtue how such causes are so near and dear to your heart."

"Now you're just being stereotypical," Aziraphale says.

"I'm just _saying_ —it seems as though something Up There has, I dunno, reset you a little. Not to worry though, you haven't turned any _more_ intolerably angelic."

"That's ridiculous. You are being ridiculous. You've just forgotten how to talk to a member of the host, is all," Aziraphale sniffs.

Crowley snickers. "Right."

Aziraphale has clearly gotten rusty when it comes to human—well, infernal—interaction. This simple set of Crowley's shoulders and his preoccupied, fatalistic aura is suddenly fascinating. Aziraphale gets caught up in it. Wants— _wants_ the fact of Crowley just sitting here, somehow. It's utter nonsense. He begins to suspect his body is malfunctioning.

Aziraphale drinks to clear his head. "How long are you in town for?" he asks, careful to keep his tone conversational.

"What d'you mean 'in town'? I don't _live_ there, Aziraphale. I don't _live_ anywhere."

Aziraphale nods. "Yes, of course, but you do spent most of your time in America these days—"

"I don't," Crowley says sharply. Tries to shrug it off into coolness and, to the untrained eye, succeeds. It's what he's best at. "There's no shortage of work for my side there. Hasn't been for the last two or three centuries, you know."

Aziraphale nods more. He's itching with curiosity. Crowley's so much more evasive when it comes to their jobs, now. And who could blame him? It makes sense that Aziraphale would've been reprogrammed. It's just that the things they tried to upload weren't always compatible with the local earthly software—at least, that's what Crowley had said about disciplinary action on his side.

Aziraphale hadn't been able to really speak to someone in ages, and he wished Crowley would be less suspicious of him. Crowley was generally (and justifiably) paranoid, but Aziraphale felt very strongly that something had happened between them during the botched Apocalypse. The memory was still there in the back of Aziraphale's mind — blurred and confused but it felt terrifying and important and thrummed with Crowley, worry, relief . . .

Aziraphale's thoughts are interrupted by the sound of Crowley brooding. An aloe plant the shelf behind him edges away furtively.

"That Palin woman is quite the accomplishment," Aziraphale encourages.

Crowley waves him off. "Yeah, yeah. Looks like we've got a new version in beta testing, right now. Who knows what they're thinking over there, anymore . . ."

Aziraphale tops off their glasses for something to do. "So how long will you be in town, then?"

Crowley snatches his glass up, apparently amenable to responding this time. "I mean, I haven't heard much from Below lately," he says, so nonchalant. "I expect they're gearing up for 2012."

"What have you heard?" Aziraphale asks carefully.

"Nothing," he says.

Aziraphale had heard rumors in his time away from Earth. He wasn't sure that Heaven was even prepared for another Apocalypse. But then again he'd _only_ heard the rumors—no one had exactly talked to him. He hadn't seen anything. He hadn't been told anything. He didn't know why they'd let him come back.

Aziraphale clears his throat. "That could be a good thing," he points out.

"It could," Crowley concedes. "Or it could mean we've been given up for a lost cause and will suffer whatever fate they have in store for the humans."

Aziraphale watches Crowley drink agitatedly, harbors little surges of panicked déjà vu. "Oh, we don't know that for certain."

"We don't know anything."

And that's worse than the end of the world.

*

"Are we up to C yet?"

"Oh, no. Not even close," Aziraphale says cheerily. He waves Crowley in the direction of his latest pile of possibly first editions "Be a dear and sort through those, will you? I haven't had the chance to yet, and I've got to catalogue _these_ , still." He's almost too wrapped up in his bookish world to notice Crowley's rather colossal sigh before he too gets to work.

Aziraphale wends his way to the overflowing back room, hit at once with the smell of leather and paper, old and preserved and knowledge-filled. He picks up a copy of _Paradise Lost_ and revels in the faded gilt of the title, the feel of the worn cover and brittle pages under his fingers.

Books are important. Aziraphale has never doubted this, and he's never been concerned about coveting them. They're objects of history, of the human capacity for art. They're intelligence and aesthetic sensibilities and the pureness of creation.

Aziraphale can't exactly create, but humans can create entire worlds, richly intricate concepts, then set invented pen to invented paper until a book is born. And Aziraphale keeps the ideas contained therein safe for them, the authors long-dead and irrelevant to the rest of the world — and he doesn't intend to think too abstractly _himself_ , of course.

He gestures his chart into his hands, squints to read the little footnotes he's crammed into every available space.

Crowley doesn't make a sound as he sneaks up behind him, but Aziraphale can sense his energy.

He's looking over Aziraphale's shoulder, "How the Hell do you keep track with that thing? At least use something well-established _and_ obsolete - like Dewey Decimal System or something."

"My own system is perfectly efficient."

Crowley glances at the sheet. "You really ought to digitize," he says.

"Don't be ridiculous." Aziraphale returns to his perusal of one of many microscopic map keys in the chart's margins.

Crowley pulls a paper thin device out of thin air—it would ruin the line of his suit in a pocket, he'd said—and taps some buttons on the screen, talks to it a little in that authoritative tone he used with his plants. "See! Look at this. You can _search_ for things on this. You can color code and write little internal notes and things. Not to mention that there's fonts galore!"

Aziraphale considers this, then shrugs. "Well yes, but I don't need some electrified notepad to do that."

"iPad," Crowley says.

"You what?"

"Forget it. Do what you want—use paper, kill more trees. See if I care." He stops talking, and Aziraphale can feel the intensity of his scrutiny. "What _are_ you wearing, by the way?"

Aziraphale blinks, looks down at himself. "What's wrong with this?"

"What _isn't_ wr—you know what? Never mind. It's no use talking to you."

"Look," Aziraphale says impatiently. "I didn't have any other clothes when I, you know, arrived."

"Wait a minute," Crowley says. "You don't have _any other clothes_?"

"Like you're one to talk," Aziraphale mutters.

"Hey, these are _duplicate_ suits," Crowley says defensively. "There's nothing wrong with seizing on something that works and buying — well, miracling — multiple versions of it. It's practical. I thought you could appreciate that, at least."

"Mm." Aziraphale really isn't in the mood to cater to Crowley's every complaint. He ignores him, attempts to return to the solace of silent books.

But Crowley's particularly childish today. He snaps his fingers and Aziraphale feels his clothes change and begin to suffocate him.

"I don't create my clothes out of the ether," Aziraphale protests.

"What, on principle?"

"It's more of a cosmic edict, actually." Whatever it is Crowley's attempted to dress him in, it isn't practical. Crowley's insistence on solid black at all times, tropical climates and mandatory uniforms notwithstanding, was more practical than this.

Aziraphale looks down at the impossibly tight blue jeans and neon-plaid shirt. He thinks there's a knit hat of some description on its head.

"You can pull it off," Crowley assures. "You're not that old—I mean, you know, your perceived human age isn't that old. Just a little frumpy around the edges. The hair isn't helping," he confides.

"God only knows what you're planning on doing with my hair," Aziraphale groans.

"Oh, no," Crowley says. "No, He doesn't." It's clear he's struggling not to laugh.

Aziraphale fixes him with what he hopes is an admonishing look, snaps his fingers and the offending garments melt back into his own familiar cardigan/trouser combo. Unfortunately, while Aziraphale's fixing Crowley with said look he gets distracted:

Crowley's mouth is perfect. Not too full, not too big or too small or thin. Neither floridly red nor drained of color. He must have taken his features into great consideration, just like he did with everything from the impeccable suits to the ineffable plan. Of course Aziraphale was only thinking about this because Crowley had licked his lips approximately 500 times in the past minute.

"Aziraphale?"

"Mm?" Aziraphale forces himself to focus. He'd been serenely independent and content before they'd met and Crowley had started pointing out the hypocrisy in everything.

*

If Crowley's face was universally attractive, Aziraphale's was universally average. Except for eyes.

Strange eyes looking back at Aziraphale from the mirror. Bottomlessly dark and infinitely bright. Not exactly blue or grey or any identifiable color, and they ran the gambit from reassuring to formidable.

Aziraphale has trouble recognizing this face. It's difficult to look at that jumble of human features meant to represent him and actually see himself. He'll walk by a store window, catch his reflection and wonder what he's looking at before he remembers that he still exists. There had been something blank and final-feeling for years, and then he'd just existed back on earth again.

Aziraphale blinks at himself in the mirror. Crowley's eyes were just as strange. It was a wonder that humans didn't think twice about them, really.

Of course, Aziraphale rarely sees Crowley's eyes anymore, but he knows they're almond shaped and perfectly spaced and thick lashed and real metallicy gold.

Sometimes, Crowley embraces his natural eyes, depending on local traditions and whether or not particular animals are an object of worship. Sometimes he'll let his guard down when the assembled humans are drunk enough, and laugh and lean on Aziraphale in some tavern and look at him like he really sees him in those such purely demonic eyes.

When Crowley absolutely can't hide them, he'll make them hazel or sometimes green, with occasional experimentation into piercing blues that made him seem simultaneously human and doubly supernatural.

Crowley arrives at the store rather later than usual, and when he comes in he doesn't rush to the back room to pester Aziraphale right away. Instead Aziraphale finds him out in the store quietly straightening things on a crowded shelf.

Crowley looks so young, standing there. He's never looked old. He's never _seemed_ old except that he remembered feudalism and Babylon and the Garden and before. When he spoke it was clear he was jaded, but he still came across as perseveringly young through it all. He still harbored hopes and passions alongside the cynicism.

"What _are_ you doing over here? We're nowhere near the W's yet," Aziraphale says.

Crowley straightens up, palpably weary, and turns to him. "Tea time, isn't it?" he says.

It is. Aziraphale clears off the table in the back room through sheer force of will. The books now reach to the ceiling.

"And I _still_ haven't got the dustiness quite right," Aziraphale is saying an hour later, pouring himself another incredibly still-steaming cuppa. "You'll need a fine layer of dust over any proper bookstore. Ask anyone." For some reason Crowley looks bored out of his mind so Aziraphale changes the subject: "What took you so long to get over here, anyway?"

Crowley glares at a teetering book tower until it rights itself. "It's a twenty minute walk, you know."

Aziraphale frowns. "Certainly, but you never walk anywhere you don’t have to, and anyway it's only five minutes' drive—"

"I wanted the fresh air," Crowley says curtly. "Sue me."

Back in the store Crowley gravitates toward the end of the alphabet again. Aziraphale moves some unsorted piles over there just to keep an eye on him while he organizes. This will unfortunately put him within whining range, but these are the sacrifices one has to make.

"Humans never can get it quite right," Crowley says, like he's talking to himself. "Whitman came awfully close, though."

"I'm sorry?"

"You know," Crowley says impatiently. "Morality. The Big Man Upstairs. The meaning of life."

Aziraphale just listens, expectant.

"All swings around us," Crowley says, just stares at the shelf.

"Crowley, I'm not sure I'm following . . ."

"Nothing. Never mind."

Aziraphale goes silently back to whatever he'd been doing, has trouble remembering and counts books idly until he's sure Crowley's stopped sulking.

Aziraphale clears his throat. "The Lady Gaga is a bit of a modern day Whitman, I'm told."

Crowley raises an eyebrow. "And who told you this, exactly?"

Aziraphale wishes he had a better frame of reference. "Well. You know. Self-acceptance is core to her philosophy." He'd read an article about this somewhere. " _And_ she's a woman of God."

Crowley snorts. "She's a woman who brands sin as 'self-expression'. Just because something feels natural doesn't mean it's morally okay."

". . . Well, it _does_ , in a way" Aziraphale says.

"Yeah, but humans don't know that," Crowley says. "Well. _Clearly._ "

Aziraphale shakes his head. "It isn't exactly about _nature_. Sin and virtue are determined by choices, not nature. There's inherent good and bad in all humans — that's why we're both attempting to sway them to our side." He pauses. "You _are_ familiar with the purpose of our respective existences?"

"Yeah yeah, well, Below is certainly doing its part. Take Justin Bieber, for example."

"You—?"

Crowley shrugs, nonchalant. "Let's just say I have it on good authority."

"Oh." Aziraphale sighs. "Well, it is America. What can one do?"

There's no harm in taking some small satisfaction in the wicked genius of Bieber Fever if Crowley's the one responsible. It isn't sinful on Aziraphale's part. It's just ineffable.

But Crowley's in a black mood. "Doesn't seem to matter _what_ we do," he says. "The whole world's going to Hell. I mean it. All that nuclear commotion in Japan? It's only a matter of time before there's another Apocalypse."

Crowley can be awfully paranoid, so Aziraphale says, "I don't know that that necessarily indicates the end of the world. Again."

"Are you joking?" Crowley says, incredulous. Aziraphale thinks for a minute that he might stoop to whipping his sunglasses off dramatically. "Listen, I know you've been out of the loop for the past decade or so—which isn't anything new, really—but come on. It's been getting worse all the time. It's like they're determined to make up for the last Apocalypse. The oil spill, the tsunami, the swine flu, the _bird_ flu. Not to mention all the terrorism and war and, I mean, let's just say 'North Korea' and leave it at that."

"You really can't believe everything you hear, dear boy," Aziraphale placates. "Especially when it's fundamentalists."

"I wouldn't call the Mayans fundamentalists . . ."

Aziraphale shrugs. "I would."

"It's going to happen again," Crowley presses. "And there's no way they're gonna fuck up _again_."

Aziraphale really doesn't want another Apocalypse. Not when he'd just averted the first one. Not when he'd been set loose on earth again without so much as a slap on the wrist. And no matter what any of _that_ means, he knows with great certainty that Heaven will win. He isn't certain whether that means _he'll_ win, though.

"Heaven would win," Aziraphale says, not really sure what he means to say.

"What makes you think your side would win? My side came up with the whole thing."

"Yes, but that's inef—"

"Okay you know what? Crying 'ineffable' all the time doesn't give you instant logic."

Aziraphale waits.

"I'm just saying," Crowley continues, somewhat calmer. "What's the point of Hell if it's just going to be defeated in the end? I mean, don't you think my side would've been crushed in the Great War if Someone really didn't want us around anymore?"

"World War I?"

"No."

"Oh," Aziraphale says. "I just. I just don’t see how Heaven couldn't win." He watches Crowley flipping idly through a first edition and doesn't want a war. It's this physically anxious feeling where Crowley is concerned. This tightening in his chest. Physical responses shouldn't be so related to silly thoughts or the mere proximity of others, like this. It's absurd.

Aziraphale isn't supposed to feel this way without making an effort. But when he thinks of Crowley it's just effortless.

Crowley's been standing there like a bomb about to go off for awhile now, biting his lower lip like that'll stop the explosion. It doesn't.

"This is stupid," he says, chucks a book carelessly to the floor. He's all sharp angry angles and biting words. "There's literally no purpose to this damn bookstore — as though you could call it an actual functioning store. It's tedious and pointless and you need to look around at the actual world once in awhile instead of indulging in your pointless, _pointless_ hobby."

"I'm not _forcing_ you to help me, you know," Aziraphale says, annoyed. "There's the door. Nothing is keeping you here."

Aziraphale doesn't look up, but he can sense Crowley's frustrated, affronted silence. A minute later the bell rings and the door slams.

He sighs. The bookstore is nowhere _near_ complete.

*

Royal Albert Hall is lovely because it's familiar. The gold accents don't hurt, though.

Aziraphale has been here countless times. Before female musicians, before standardized tuning and conducting batons and clarinets. It's always been just absolutely lovely.

"The place could use a bit of sprucing up," Crowley says. "Remember the Bayreuth Festspielhaus?"

"Only because you dragged me there on a yearly basis. . ."

"Now _that_ was music," Crowley says wistfully. " _That_ was theater. Worth waking up for."

"Mm." Aziraphale checks his pocketwatch.

Crowley sighs. "They just don't make 'em like that anymore."

"No," Aziraphale says. "They make movies, now, as I understand it."

Crowley rolls his eyes. "Oh, give it a rest. The snobby traditionalists of today actually _like_ Wagner. It's not in vogue to sneer at him anymore. I mean, asking you to get with the times is a lost cause, I know, but we're talking over a century ago, here. . ."

"You can't fault me for preferring Tchaikovsky. _You_ prefer Tchaikovsky."

"I don't, really. I just knew him."

"You really had nothing better to do in the 19th century? _Really_?"

Crowley sighs patiently. "No, I really didn't, because humans were doing it all _for_ me. And anyway I took that century off to enjoy the finer things in life."

"Demons can take off on impromptu holiday whenever they're so inclined, can they?"

"They can when America's at war with itself and Prussia is busy bullying the rest of the Western world." The lights dim for a moment in warning. "Done ogling the pillars yet?"

They find their seats. Or, rather, they find seats. Crowley gives anyone who approaches a professionally withering look until they just give up and leave.

They aren't in a private box. They're not even in the orchestra seats. The nosebleed section makes for better acoustics, and seeing the players from so far way has never been a problem for them.

Aziraphale leafs thorough an overproduced program. "I say, I've never heard of this John Williams fellow. Is he up and coming?"

Crowley gives the distinct impression that he'd rather be putting his head on the desk somewhere. "Nope."

They listen to the murmurs of the audience, the showy warm ups of trumpet and piccolo, and read their programs in silence. Crowley radiates from beside him—not so much heat as presence. His black silk shirt strains over one shoulder because of the way he's sitting and Aziraphale can glimpse the lashy, downward cast of his eyes from this angle - sunglass shadows painting his face darker than it really is.

Aziraphale says, "Did you know him well?"

"Huh?"

"Tchaikovsky."

"Oh. Eh." Crowley closes his program and leans back into a cramped velvety seat. "My people were working on him. Cholera and blackmail . . . very messy," he says. "If you ask me, they were just desperate to get him down Below." Crowley pauses, dredging up old memories. "The original title was 'Program Symphony', I think. For the last one, I mean."

"Oh? So what's the program, then?"

"The usual," Crowley says. "Lust, loss, death. Eventual suicide."

"Sounds like it's right up your street."

"Alley. Up my alley."

"What's the difference?"

"There is one," Crowley says firmly. "I'm not entirely sure what it is, but I'll be blessed if there isn't one."

Aziraphale pats his hand. "I'm sure, my dear."

"He'd always been depressed. All that forbidden love that dare not speak its name didn't help, I imagine. I dunno." Crowley didn't get close to humans very often, but when he did Aziraphale suspected he cared about them a lot more than he let on. "He felt he'd achieved his greatest work and couldn't ever top it, so why bother with living anymore?"

"Music was his life," Aziraphale says, shaking his head. "I can't imagine living only for the sake of something so abstract."

"You do," Crowley says. "That _is_ what you do."

"Living for God is _hardly_. . ."

Crowley frowns. "It is."

"It isn't _abstract_ ," Aziraphale says desperately.

"It _is_ ," Crowley insists. "No, listen - _humans_ haven't got it quite right, and don't pretend like your lot are privy to His real agenda, either."

Aziraphale sputters.

"Seriously, what exactly would you live for if not for . . . your purpose. Your assignment. The books? That's hardly different from the music thing. I dunno, just." Crowley tries to get himself back on track. "Weird stupid tiny things keep us going in life. It's not really good or bad, that's just how it is."

"I'm not sure I'd want to live if I wasn't living for something as concrete and important as God," Aziraphale says. He's just programmed to.

Crowley doesn't say anything, but it's clear he's frustrated — unable or unwilling to articulate what's actually troubling him.

Crowley was constantly on edge. If he could be summed up in one brief sentiment, it would be 'on edge', especially in these post-Apocalyptic days. When Aziraphale had suggested this, Crowley had said that, no, he preferred to think of himself as 'emo' — but strictly in the cool way, of course. And then changed the subject as soon as Aziraphale had started to ask exactly what that meant.

Crowley being on edge didn't necessarily mean that he fidgeted or _sounded_ anxious or admitted it, at all—it was just that he was so still, so calm and collected that it betrayed his restlessness. He was _annoying_ , he was _always there_ , complaining about nothing and insulting everything fundamental to Aziraphale all the time but still _always there_ anyway . . .

Aziraphale's very grateful he's a demon and so easy to forget—rather like a habit one can always break.

And yet.

Aziraphale _wants_ to be troubled with him. He doesn't put up with Crowley because he isn't all that bad - he does it because he isn't all _anything_. Because whenever Crowley ought to tell his superiors, he wants to tell Aziraphale.

Aziraphale wants to do what he wants, too. There isn't much to lose, at this point.

The unfamiliar piece ends and the house lights turn on. Intermission. Aziraphale watches the odd sound dampeners on the ceiling glow like sudden suns.

Crowley's rummaging for his program. Aziraphale catches his wrist.

"Lobby," he says.

Crowley frowns. "O- _kay_."

Crowley follows him out of the hall, zipping ahead of the crowd with miraculous ease.

"This place always reminds me of a coliseum," Crowley says. "You don't see many modern halls like this. Just think of the Barbican. I can barely sit through a concert in that . . . thing."

"Hence the pops concert here?"

"Basically." Crowley starts to frown. "So uh, what's going on with your face?"

Aziraphale says it all at once: " _Do you really think there's going to be another Apocalypse_."

"I uh. I dunno. Maybe. Listen, Aziraphale, you know I can get a little carried away . . ."

Aziraphale pushes on. "How would we even know if They were planning another one? I wouldn't. Would you? Crowley?"

"I don't think . . ." He's biting his bottom lip. "No. I wouldn't."

And it's the funniest thing because Crowley is nodding and nodding like he's really thinking about this, but the nodding soon begins to take on a more frantic nature as though Crowley may be having a nervous breakdown of some kind, stepping softly closer over brilliantly saturated carpet and staring at Aziraphale like he holds all the answers. There's sunglasses between them but somehow Aziraphale knows the look in his eyes anyway. Crowley's hand at Aziraphale's neck, Crowley's lips on his and the hard press of plastic on Aziraphale's nose. Soft carpeted stumbling that startles Aziraphale into opening his mouth. Crowley's so warm. Crowley's so real.

"What is happening," Aziraphale says, although it comes out more like a series of indistinct vowels and consonants mushed between his mouth and Crowley's. And anyway Aziraphale finds that he doesn't much care what's happening.

Crowley tastes like Crowley. And it wasn't courtesy of some superior angelic sense — really, angels couldn't sense much more than your average human, barring intermittent disturbances like psychic mediums or Twilight fans. It wasn't that. It was just the ages of learning to distinguish subtle Crowley-scent from various fads of incense and perfume, from the smell of hay or seaside or whatever food or drink the population favored at the time. It was just the knowing, and that could well have been entirely in Aziraphale's head, but it was still infinitely captivating.

Something seems to drop out from under him— his remaining brain cells, no doubt—and dictates that he get Crowley _still_ and _more_ and _his_. So he gets Crowley against a white wood-paneled wall, kissing him while Crowley's fingers twist in Aziraphale's shirt front, the sound of their mouths, the compliment of Crowley's dark hair against the starkly white wall.

Crowley wrenches his head to the side a little, desperate for unneeded air. "What are you," he begins, inexplicably sibilant, clears his throat. "What are you doing?"

"I don't know," Aziraphale says. "I think I may be going mad. I am. I want . . . something."

Crowley laughs. "Indeed." But this close Aziraphale can see how wide his eyes have gotten. Wants to see him better and takes the sunglasses off and puts them in the inside pocket of his jacket. Crowley squints against the influx of light and Aziraphale watches his pupils go from nearly human to undeniably reptilian. Kisses him again.

"Do you suppose this is a bad idea?" Aziraphale frets, lips still caught up in Crowley's since he's apparently unable to separate them.

"Yes. I'd say the treason was worse, though," Crowley points out, impatient. Dives in for more kisses.

He's right, of course. Official policies were ineffably contradictory on fraternization, and he doesn't imagine it's any more straightforward Below. There's a fine line between doing good unto others and exacting divine justice. You could argue it either way, if you had to.

He wonders if Crowley's thought about this at all. Aziraphale gets the impression that Crowley's allegiances had shifted sometime during the Apocalypse. Where to, though? To pure selfishness? To pestering Aziraphale for constant attention? To the noble pursuit of restocking vintage bookstores everywhere?

Crowley's gone so squirmy between Aziraphale and the wall, clothes making subtle shifty sounds with his every move. One hand clutching Aziraphale's hip and the other tracing aimlessly up and down Aziraphale's arm. He lays shaky kisses away over Aziraphale's jaw, says shakily, "Can we please get out of here?"

Aziraphale nods through the fog that's settled in his brain.

Crowley flashes a crazed little smile. "So, uh, my place or yours? I might point out that yours has Library of Alexandria crammed into it."

"Oh, very well." Aziraphale backs off enough to make a vague gesture.

They find themselves in an unfamiliar living room lit only by the glow of a television set.

A pair of wide-eyed kids sitting on the couch stare up at them. Crowley puts a more respectable distance between them.

One of the kids says, "Cor, did you just beam down from the starship Enterprise?"

The other one shakes her head. "You're stupid, Bobby. Look at them! It's gotta be a Doctor Who."

" _Fine_ ," Bobby concedes. "But that other bloke's from the Matrix, most likely."

"What's—?"

"You're still too little to see it. Mum says."

The girl rolls her eyes. "Where's your police box, mister?" she demands.

Crowley sighs, seizes Aziraphale's arm and makes a more precise gesture that lands them in his actual apartment. Aziraphale squints against the brightness.

Crowley's apartment was the residential equivalent of an Apple store. This had a lot to do with the fact that it also contained the latest generation of every product one would find in an actual Apple store.

Of course, Aziraphale didn't think of it in quite these terms - the last time he'd seen a Mac computer it'd had a rainbow apple on the side.

In any case, Aziraphale doesn't get much of a chance to take in the décor as Crowley's started kissing him again, harder and more confidentially, and it's all Aziraphale can do to keep from unbalancing. Crowley's strong arms and Crowley's tongue licking elegantly into his mouth. Aziraphale slips his fingers through Crowley's perfectly sculpted hair, completely free of product but it always bounces back into place.

"You're terrible at this," Crowley mumbles, closing his eyes when Aziraphale goes to kiss him again. "You really are. Awful, really . . ."

So Aziraphale pulls back, sighs, irritated. "Would you rather we stop?"

But Crowley's already reclaimed his mouth in answer, saying something apologetic like _mmf_.

By some mutual agreement they stumble through the apartment, pausing to press obscenely close against every available wall. An intimidatingly shiny lamp crashes to the floor but Crowley doesn't bat an eyelash. Aziraphale can see his eyes now—shut tightly and tired-looking around the edges, and those too expressively knit brows that betrayed him all the time.

Crowley knocks him unceremoniously onto the bed, which is terribly modern and hasn't got any posts, scrambling to get on top of him but Aziraphale turns the tables easily keeps Crowley's hands above his head while he kisses him into the high-end mattress.

Aziraphale's nerves have been rewired: Crowley's mouth makes him lightheaded, the way their hands get caught up sends shivers up this spine, the sound of Crowley's tiny thoughtless moans shoots urgent messages directly to his groin. He's so used to the sound of his voice, from snarling arguments to the Arrangement to this.

He's learning quickly that lust is like intoxication, but instead of alcohol it's the consumption of desires and impulses and obsession that are then set loose in the bloodstream.

Aziraphale's shirt is gone. So is Crowley's. It throws him off a little but Crowley pulls him closer before he can say anything, and the simple brush of skin clamors hotly urgently in Aziraphale's mind.

It's both rough and balletic, this strife of limbs and wills and tongues. Crowley's leg winds tightly around Aziraphale's so he can hold him down while he grinds his hips up. Aziraphale gets dizzy with it, can't think beyond the raw need that attacks him from every angle, just turns the lazy twine of their fingers into something demanding, presses Crowley's arms more securely into the mattress. Crowley makes a pleased sound, struggles deliciously and suddenly Aziraphale's belt is removing itself and their shoes are unlacing.

"You _are_ ruining the mood with all this haste," Aziraphale says, but he can't stop writhing against him—the feel of Crowley's skin hot and soft and hard. . .

"Haste _is_ the mood," Crowley says. "Anyway we're not _human_. There's no prescribed mood for this situation. Do you call never being rained on once after several centuries in London 'ruining the mood'?"

"Well. . ." Being human would certainly assuage Aziraphale's increasing anxiousness about what could happen to them as a result of being so very human together.

Crowley laughs, leans up to kiss him while the rest of their clothes disappear. The electricity of this undermines Aziraphale's limited composure and before he quite knows what's going on Crowley's flipped them, somewhat sideways across the bed now.

"What do you want?" Crowley says, lips parted and hair falling around his face.

Aziraphale isn't sure what he wants. He only does — inexplicably, crucially, always. "I. Um. You."

Crowley laughs. "That's the idea, yeah."

He nudges Aziraphale's face, kisses down his neck and back up to his mouth again while one hand trails down Aziraphale's side, lightly over his hip and to his arousal. Aziraphale gasps at the black white hot loud pleasure it inspires, and Crowley just grinds into his thigh and kisses him as it builds and builds.

They go on like this for a dizzying eternity. At some point Crowley's hand slips lower.

Aziraphale squirms. "I don't think it works quite like this," he says.

"We're cheating," Crowley says, then frowns against Aziraphale's cheek. "How do you know so much about—?"

"It's, it's not okay to cheat," Aziraphale says, but only because he's insanely nervous.

"It's okay if _I_ do the cheating," Crowley points out. "That's how this relationship works, isn’t it?" He presses one somehow slickened finger inside him.

"If that's the case then what precisely do you get out of it?"

Crowley blinks. "Sex, apparently."

There's another finger now, and this vague suggestion of potential, this precipice that just a little more will—

Aziraphale's reverie is interrupted. "I don't. I don't _bend_ that way, Crowley."

"Yes you do," Crowley says. His carefully lovely face isn't so careful now —it's shiny with sweat, with a kiss-red mouth and messy hair sticking to his forehead. "Why should the laws of physics come into play _now_ , anyway?"

"This doesn't," Aziraphale begins, cuts himself off with a gasp—third finger now. "This doesn't make much sense does it?"

"Since when does a human invention make sense?"

"This isn't a human _invention_ per se. . ."

"Yes it is. You were there, if you remember. Didn't seem to faze you then," he points out.

"Yes, well, I was rather preoccupied at the time, of course, and. . . I. . .oh." There's rather more than fingers in the mix by now.

"Oh," Crowley agrees. Crowley's so hard, so impossibly there inside him. Aziraphale twists to get more of it, heat flooding his whole body.

"We really need to stop talking," Crowley is saying. "I'm very confident we've exhausted every possible topic of conversation many times over, these past couple millennia."

But Aziraphale can't battle his nervousness, and it's got to come out somehow. "Well. . . I. _Well!_ what would you prefer I do then?" The way Crowley is moving his hips is so entrancing that Aziraphale has got to distract himself from it. He's been programmed to resist and resist and resist, but that's not the most practical approach, not on earth. After awhile he can usually convince himself that the occasional indulgence is okay if enjoyed in moderation.

"This," Crowley says, presses Aziraphale's shoulder firmly down into expensive mattress and kissing him immobile. Aziraphale pushes against him because that's just what they do.

Crowley's obsessed with Aziraphale's neck, keeps kissing and sucking and panting hotly against at and it's clear that he's breathing like this not out of necessity but because he's overwhelmed—Aziraphale reads it in his huge, nearly rounded pupils, in the way he grapples with sheets and skin and Aziraphale's hair.

Crowley drives into him harder, rhythm building faster and better until the oddness gives way to pleasure entirely. Crowley makes the loveliest noises, hands tight on Aziraphale's leg and hip, forehead pressed tight to his. Every new thrust coaxes more of this, this pure influx of feeling that gets so caught up in physicality.

It isn't like divine ecstasy. It's not 'ecstasy' at all. It's these odd physical actions that flood Aziraphale's every cell with unbridled sensations, thoughts, heartbeats, and it balances there between pleasure and sick-sweet emotion and _almost_ and _more_. . .

Crowley's got one hand around Aziraphale's erection now, moving fast and just the right pressure and Aziraphale doesn't so much see the colors as feel them, doesn't hear any full-bodied chords but feels them race through his bloodstream.

"So close, I'm so," Crowley is muttering to Aziraphale's panting mouth. "You're so—"

Aziraphale's so spent, so blissfully boneless, but he moves better in tandem with Crowley anyway, kisses the random shoulder that's within range, revels in it when Crowley tenses and exhales long and satisfied so it blows through Aziraphale's hair. Crowley racing heart slows. The world slows. Everything slows.

*

It isn't a nice day.

It's gloomy and desolate in St James Park, but there's that trace of something in the air that comes with history here. The ghosts of eras that walk among them. The same trees keeping watch, turning the same greens and golds year in and year out, inching gradually onward.

They're standing on the wrong side of a decorative fence, standing practically on top of the flowers at the water's edge. It isn't a nice day, but it's oddly warm for the time of year, with breezes that smell alternately of dying leaves and newly cut grass.

"The fresh air is nice," Aziraphale says, but in reality he's just anxious to get back to the bookstore. Maybe he does live for the books.

Crowley shrugs, fiddling with a now empty bag of bread crumbs. "So uh, I think I may have found something for the store on eBay."

"Oh?"

"The title jumped out at me." He won't stop twisting the bag in his hands, endlessly restless. "Something about nice and accurate. The seller gave it away for practically nothing — said there was no point to the thing anymore, which I think is a bit obvious in terms of the art of underselling, but . . ."

It does ring a bell. "Oh really? Splendid."

"See?" Crowley says, just giving up and thinking the bag out of existence. "It's coming along. And you can't say I didn't contribute, now."

"I must say, I didn't think I'd be able to recover so many books so quickly. Don't get me wrong, there's a long way to go. And goodness knows some of them may be lost to the ages." Aziraphale looks out across the water. "Some of those books had been the only copies left in the world, or bought straight from the author. You just can't replicate that. It's such a shame."

After a minute Crowley says, "Books aren't your purpose in life." He says it strangely, like he'd meant to convey his irritation but ended up with something else.

"I know that," Aziraphale says. "It's just that . . . Well, it's nowhere near complete, and there's no knowing whether it'll ever be the same again."

To Aziraphale's surprise Crowley laughs. "We'll figure it out," he says, snagging Aziraphale by the hand and walking onward with him.

*


End file.
